


Geeks

by sage_theory (papersage)



Category: Chuck (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-02
Updated: 2010-03-02
Packaged: 2017-10-07 16:09:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/66786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/papersage/pseuds/sage_theory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because you wouldn't do that. You work for the NSA, you're better than that and there are some things that NSA agents just Do. Not. Do. Set in very, very early S1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Geeks

**Author's Note:**

  * For [missyvortexdv (Purpleyin)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purpleyin/gifts).



Never fall in love with the geeks. It's just a bad idea.

You know that. Which is why you consider Sarah to be such an idiot. Of course, the CIA pretty much puts "smart people need not apply" out in the window when they go recruiting, but still. Even for a CIA agent, it's stupid.

What's worse is that she's doing this for a second time. First there was Bryce, now Chuck. No wonder the CIA loves her.

You wouldn't catch an NSA agent doing something like that.

You certainly wouldn't catch them doing it twice.

You wouldn't catch an NSA agent at a cheap sports bar, looking to find the bottom of a pitcher of whatever's domestic and cheap and on tap, glancing around wondering if any of these guys are what they used to call three beer queers. You wouldn't find him looking for the skinny ones, thinking about those long, nobby fingers that geeks tend to have, the ones that are almost girl hands but like spider legs, sort of.

Most of all, you wouldn't catch him thinking that if the guy at the pool table was taller and doesn't turn around to show that he has a square face and a flat nose and no chin, that he looks like Chuck.

And let's say you did observe this - not that you would, but let's say - you would never, ever catch him reminiscing about anyone. You wouldn't catch him thinking about some old love affair because he's reminded of it when a guy with the right build and right color hair sits down about five seats over.

Because there are certain things that NSA agents just _do not do_. Because they, unlike certain perky little CIA agents with perky breasts and a perky smile and perky little beaver teeth, know how it ends.

They know what happens. They know that you start out with some geek who's more than just a pencil pushing, pocket-protector wearing codemonkey who's name might be something like, oh, maybe, Grant. They know that you go on a few missions with him, end up spending cold nights in a van doing surveillance on the terrorist du jour and you find out that you both secretly liked Abba and that you both love Hawaiian pizza. They know that after a few nights of that, in the darkness, when even the terrorists sleep and the dogs have stopped barking the and world is perfectly still, that in that darkness Grant will look you dead in the eyes and tell you about why he doesn't have a family to go home to. Why he's volunteering to be out there in the cold on Christmas.

See, this geek, this Grant, he'll tell you about how he got disowned. How his bible beating son-of-a-bitch father did all sorts of shit to him (and you'll think about maybe looking up Grant's file and giving the old man a scare, because he deserves it) and how despite all that, and despite being chased out of his own house by his drunken, shot gun wielding father, he muscled right up to the old guy and said, "Dad, I'm gay." He'll laugh and tell you that it was the best worst most horrible most liberating day of his life. He'll show you the scar he got when the bullet grazed him.

And you, you'll feel bad for the guy and you'll give a half laugh and you'll decide to show him one of your scars. Because you feel scared for him. He's just told you he's queer, and that's like opening his throat and letting you put a knife to his jugular. You've got to give something back in exchange for that terrifying amount of trust.

So you show him the long flat remnant of the first knife fight you ever got in. The one where you couldn't quite dodge the other kid at the foster home because he came at you with the business end of a broken beer bottle because he swore up and down that you took his stash.

And you'll even tell him that this kid was your first kill. Not even the NSA knows that. Nobody knows that. Nobody even knows that the little bastard is dead. They just assumed he ran off and probably expired in some crackhouse. Hey, even as a kid, you had a talent for knowing where to hide the bodies.

You'll tell him, though, that it was the first time you knew you had it in you to make a human being stop existing because they made it too hard for everyone else to exist. Because there were other kids - littler kids - in that foster home who were getting the shit beaten out of them.

You'll tell them that's when you knew you could only be a cop or a soldier, because you needed to kill and you needed to kill for a good reason.

And you'll expect him to say something cliched or stupid like 'I'm sorry' and 'do you want to talk about it' and 'it turned you into the person you are today, so I guess what doesn't kill you makes you stronger'. After all, you're NSA, you can see these things coming.

But he won't. He'll say, "I never thought I'd be grateful for my bastard father. Jesus, Casey. I'm glad you survived it."

And he'll show you another one of his scars - the one he has to pull up his shirt to show, and you'll pull up the leg of your trousers and show him where they had to replace part of your knee with metal.

Then he'll touch that scar, hot raised pink flesh that's shiny across your otherwise hairy, dark leg and his touch will make you quiver.

And then you'll realize that you really like the way it feels when he's on top of you, with his hard-on kind of pressing into your thigh and yours pressing into his and the way stubble scratches against stubble and how his deodorant and cologne and sweat come together in a flat, hard, wonderful man smell and you start thinking you'd be willing to risk anything stupid for this guy.

And then it'll become a regular thing. You'll be cool about it. You'll pretend to be buddies, and even try not to get too many assignments together because that would be suspicious. But he'll have a toothbrush at your apartment and you'll leave some clothes at his and you'll use all your NSA training and mojo to sneak quick handjobs and blowjobs and even once the best quickie ever in closets and bathrooms and cars and once even in the trunk of a car.

But then, you'll be on assignment in Kabul and he'll be trying to break the encryption on some database that contains information about terrorists and uranium smuggling and whatever - you weren't listening in the briefing, you were busy trying not to get a hard on while he sucked on the end of his pen and you thought about how you really, really liked that new thing he tried with his tongue last night.

You know what you need to know, you think. It's bad stuff, they're terrorists, you decrypt their shit, get out, get home, and then lay Grant on the bed and make him do that whining noise in his throat - the one that sounds like a dog whining when it wants food.

And you think you're almost out. Two firefights later, you think the building is empty, and you can hear the helicopter coming. You wonder if this is the mission where you're going to get really stupid and kiss him. Because damn if he doesn't look fucking wonderful, with his bulletproof vest and his flushed cheeks.

"I think we should try that little cafe down by the safehouse, before we move out," you'll start to say, keeping your gun lazily aimed into the darkness, tracking the helicopter's search lights.

Then you'll hear the loud pop and you feel a wet warm spray all over you and you're still smiling because you haven't even processed it yet and you see his body fall and the pool of blood spread.

You turn quick and you see one of the terrorists with an arm dangling to the side, holding a gun.

You fire over and over again. You nearly decapitate the fucker, screaming at him and you think you're going to turn around and find Grant alive, holding some wound.

Only, he's not making any noises when you finally stop firing bullets into the utterly destroyed corpse of the terrorist. Grant is leaned against the wall on the roof, and half of his face looks absolutely normal. The other half is flayed open, just meat and pink bits of bloody bone and the back of his skull is wide open and yes, there are bits of brain.

Stupidly, you might for a second think of collecting them all and trying to put them back in his head. Works for guts, after all, but you shake him and you call his name and you finally get it, just as the helicopter touches down and deafens you.

That's it, he's gone.

You don't even get to take the body home.

And it's not like you cry about it. You're an NSA agent and you don't do things like cry. You don't go insane one night, sniffing everything of his that's left in your apartment because it smells like him and you just need to smell him or touch something of his or have a little piece of him because it's not like there's a giant vacuum inside of your chest or anything.

It's not like you start taking suicide missions and instead of dying like you want to, you get promoted.

Because you wouldn't do that. You work for the NSA, you're better than that and there are some things that NSA agents just Do. Not. Do.

So, if you see some NSA agent at a bar, that's not what he's thinking about at all. He's not falling for anyone. He's not letting Chuck get under his skin. He doesn't check the schedule at Buy More and he doesn't secretly mess with the customers who give Chuck shit. He certainly doesn't check around to see if there's any indications, ever, that Chuck's ever looked at another guy.

Because he knows better. He knows you don't fall in love with geeks.


End file.
